


Ganymede Summer

by phoenixflight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean Winchester, Case Fic, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, Rimming, Time Travel, Younger Dean Winchester/Older Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22148308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/phoenixflight
Summary: Tracking down a series of disappearances, Sam gets flung back in time and has to solve the case with sixteen year old Dean. It's very distracting.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 32
Kudos: 264





	Ganymede Summer

**Author's Note:**

> My final fic for 12 days of Wincestmas 2019/20 and my last fic of the decade! (Mostly finished in 2019).  
> I have always loved time travel unreasonably, so this was a joy to write.

Sam knew what was going to happen because he remembered it from years ago, but it wasn’t till now that he knew how it started.

It started while investigating a haunted curio shop near Lexington, South Carolina, where people had been disappearing periodically for decades. There wasn’t a trace of EMF, but out of nowhere Sam’s head began to spin. He lost his balance, crashing through a rack of tacky scarves, and the last thing he heard was Dean shouting his name.

He woke up to the click of a safety being released, and opened his eyes to look down the dark barrel of a shotgun. Slowly, he raised both hands, palms up.

He was flat on his back on a floor, the scratchy texture of cheap motel carpet scraping the small of his back where his shirt had ridden up. Dean stood over him, gun steady, eyes hard, all of sixteen years old.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean asked. The rhythm and tone of his voice were the same but it lacked the growl that deepened Dean’s voice as an adult. It was a sound straight out of Sam’s oldest memories. Sam breathed out slowly.

“My name’s Sam,” he said, because he remembered that much, the surprise of hearing his own name. “I’m a hunter.”

Dean’s eyes flicked to one side, a brief but obvious tell. Following his gaze, Sam saw himself, a gawky boy, hovering in the shadow of the doorway, holding the Taurus which looked ridiculously big in his young hands.

Dean kicked his shins, hard. “Hey! Eyes up here,” he barked, in a closer approximation of his older voice. “I’m just supposed to believe whatever you tell me after you show up out of thin air? If you’re a hunter, you know what kind of shit does that.”

“I know,” Sam said. “Do whatever tests you need. Salt, iron, silver, holy water. I’m human.”

“Human doesn’t mean you’re safe,” Dean muttered, but he jerked his head at Sam anyway. “Get the salt.”

After Sam had been salted like a holiday ham, and shallowly sliced with both iron and silver knives by Dean while little Sam held a gun on him, they sat him at the rickety formica table in the kitchenette, and Dean said, “Start talking,” with the shotgun across his knees.

Watching his younger self hovering behind a teenaged Dean was the weirdest thing that had happened to Sam in at least six months, but he swallowed and said, “We’re in South Carolina, right? Just outside Lexington?” He’d known as soon as he’d had a moment to think about it. The taste of the air was the same, thick and humid. He hadn’t put the pieces together back in his own time, because younger him hadn’t actually gone on this hunt, had just heard about it from Dean. “There’s a haunted shop in the old town. Well, we thought it was haunted, I think cursed is probably more like it. I got thrown through, like, a wormhole or something, and landed here. Anyway, I think I know how to reverse it. I hope so, anyway.” _I hope Dean didn’t embellish too much when he told me the story,_ he added silently to himself.

“Uh-huh. And why did you land here? And how did you know to just announce you were a hunter like we’d have any idea what that meant?”

Sam had been working on this one. “You’re the Winchester boys, right?”

They shot one another a glance, and it felt so familiar and at once so odd to see it from the outside, that Sam felt momentarily light headed. Or maybe that was just the southern heat and the shock of falling through a time tunnel.

“There’s more hunters out there than you think, and they gossip like old women,” Sam told them. “Don’t take my word for it, you can ask your dad. Ask him about a place called the Roadhouse. Anyway, when I mentioned I was coming down this way someone there said that they thought the Winchesters were in this neck of the woods. So when I appeared out of no where and you two didn’t start screaming...” Sam shrugged, hoping he was giving it just enough honest confusion. “I figured you were probably them.” He hesitated a beat, not sure he should say this last thing, but it was true and Sam didn’t think he’d ever get another chance to say this to Dean, not in a way that wouldn’t be weird as hell. “You look like John. Your eyes.”

“You’ve met him?” Sam piped up, despite Dean’s harsh gesture for silence.

“We got in a bar fight once,” Sam shrugged. That was, strictly speaking, true, although the next bit wasn’t. “He probably doesn’t remember me.”

“I’ll ask him about the Roadhouse,” Dean said, threateningly, and Sam nodded, wondering if the detail had just slipped his mind in the passing of time, or if Sam had already accidentally changed the script. He’d been twelve, it wasn’t like his memories were crystal clear.

“So this hunt,” Dean continued. “You’re investigating a curse?”

“Yeah. An object, I’m pretty sure I know what it is.”

“What’s it do?”

“Uh.” Sam cleared his throat. “Moves people, I think.” _Through time,_ he added silently. That explained a couple of weird articles in the local papers which hadn’t been obviously connected to the case but had caught their attention none the less. “Vanishes them.”

“Okay.” Dean nodded a couple of times to himself. “Let’s go look.” He glared at Sam like Sam might pull a John move and tell him to stay with his brother, but Sam just shrugged. He remembered being left behind in the apartment, after all.

“Okay. Got a car?” He knew Dean didn’t, yet, so if Dad was gone that meant the Impala was too.

As Sam hotwired a care, he could hear his younger self and Dean arguing in hissed tones behind a pathetic-looking ornamental palm tree in the parking lot. Sammy thought it was stupid for Dean to go hunting with a complete stranger, and he was goddamn right. He remembered the sense of hot emotion raging in him – terror and bitter jealousy.

“Stay inside, Sammy,” Dean shot back at him as Sam rolled the engine, glancing around the empty lot again for the owner of the vehicle. Dean hustled across the black top, heat waves making him shimmer like a mirage, and slid into the car.

“A Volkswagen, really?” he muttered, and it was so Dean that Sam grinned at him as he put his foot to the accelerator.

“You got a problem with safety and economy?” he asked, pulling onto the main road.

“I’m gonna get granny cooties,” Dean bitched, and Sam felt his smile widen, stupid and helpless. Glancing sideways he caught Dean looking at him, a little pink-cheeked. Dean coughed and looked away, licking his lips like he did involuntarily all the time, and shifted a little in his seat, the vinyl squeaking under him. Sam’s stomach lurched with a stab of lust so strong it hurt.

This was the Dean of his earliest and purest fantasies; the hero-like figure of Sam's first wet dreams. Dean at sixteen had a beauty that was so delicate as to be otherworldly, and the southern sun had bleached his hair vivid blond and scattered constellations of freckles across his face. Sam could barely drag his eyes away to watch the road.

The Sam who belonged in this time was a lanky 12 year old, all awkward newly growing limbs and baby fat still clinging to his face and tummy. It had been years before Dean had actually touched him, but Sam’s obsession - his life long love affair - had begun here. Well, it had actually begun in 1984, with a night Sam had no memory of, but it had gained its final and most damning dimension here, around 1995, if his estimate was correct.

That year, he had woken up with sticky boxers so many mornings that Dean had silently bought him two extra packs from a Walmart so he could have clean underwear without doing laundry twice a week. It was after his body had begun to light up like a sparkler for Dean's, and before the darkest of his teenage mood swings had set in. Before his disillusionment and fury with hunting had grown strong enough to sour his relationships with his family. All he wanted for Christmas the year he was 12 was Dad to be home for once like he promised, and for Dean to kiss him.

Funny how with Dad long dead now, nothing had really changed about his deepest wishes, and now he was sitting less than a foot away from the reincarnation of his cardinal sexual lodestone – his big brother at sixteen; chewing his bottom lip, looking out the window, denim over his thighs where his legs were sprawled a little apart, the washed cotton of his t-shirt thin enough to see his nipples through.

Sam’s knuckles were tight around the steering wheel to stop himself from touching, and his dick hurt where it was pressed against his zipper.

Mortimer’s Antiques in the old part of Lexington was almost exactly the same as it was in the future. The gold paint on the windows was a little newer-looking and the woman working the counter had black hair instead of gray, but it was uncanny how little really had changed.

“What are we looking for?” Dean muttered, leaning in to speak softly. Sam could look down at the top of his head like this – Dean still had several inches to go to reach his full height, and he was slender enough that Sam could easily heft him up, hold him against a wall and –

He cleared his throat. “Painting.”

“Great,” Dean grunted, glancing around at the crowded shop. Dozens of paintings in ornate frames hung on the walls, with more stacked beneath antique tables.

“I’ll know it when I see it, I think.” Sam hoped so. He remembered asking about the cursed object and Dean had just said “painting.”

“You boys let me know if you need help,” the shopkeeper said, and they both turned identical professional smiles on her. She blinked a little, and went back to dusting, cheeks pink.

They wandered through a crowded maze of shelves and tables packed with knickknacks. Tacky lamps, creepy dolls, old kitchen gadgets, a copy of TIME magazine from the 40s that momentarily distracted Sam, cheap, tarnished jewelry, matchbox cars. The sense of déjà vu creeping up Sam’s spine was intense – he and Dean had done this same reconnaissance a few hours ago, fifteen years in the future. He kept being distracted by watching Dean’s ass out of the corner of his eye.

But he did know the painting as soon as he saw it.

It was a somewhat insipid oil painting of what looked like the Lexington high street – restored southern colonial shop fronts, cars parked on the street, blue sky and bucolic clouds. But the cars were subtly wrong for 1995. That rounded, mint green car was absolutely a Prius. And in the plate glass window of one of the shops was a tiny sign that said WI-FI.

“Dean,” he said, just loudly enough to get his attention in the dusty hush of the shop.

Dean was at his side instantly, squinting at the painting. “That it?”

“Yeah.” Burning was the typical purification for a cursed object, but they couldn’t light a little old lady’s shop on fire, which meant touching the painting to get it out of the building. But Sam hadn’t touched it the first time, to fall through it, so hopefully it wouldn’t be a problem. Sam coughed to catch the woman’s attention. “Excuse me. How much for the painting?”

“Ain’t it nice? Thirty dollars, sugar.”

Sam pulled out his wallet, and then grimaced. He had a hundred dollars in twenties, but all but a single battered bill had been printed after ’95. He shot the woman a smile, “Thanks, I’ll have to think about it.”

Out on the sidewalk Dean said, “So we coming back for it after close?”

“Yup,” Sam said. “Want to kill a few hours? We could go back to the motel. Or the diner at the end of the street had a sign for pie.”

It was dirty pool but it worked. Dean only looked torn for a second before he said, “Lemme call Sammy and let him know.”

They detoured to a pay phone to update young Sam and then ordered lunch to go – a reuben for Sam, a cheeseburger with extra fries for Dean, and two slices of peach pie. Sam said that he didn’t want to sit in the diner with the stolen car parked on the street, which was true, but he also wanted his brother alone. They drove out of town, with a greasy bag of take-out on the seat between them, and Sam turned off the main highway onto an old county road.

In the twenty first century, the land around Lexington that had been built up into sprawling suburbs of cheaply-built, over-large single family homes, but now it was mostly still fields and wooded hills. Hitting the brakes, Sam pulled onto an overgrown track, past the hedge of some farmer’s field, bumping down the rutted lane until they were mostly out of sight of the road.

They ate in silence except for the drone of the cicadas and chirping of summer birds. It was not quite an easy silence. They kept casting glances at one another and catching the other looking back. There was a shivery, infatuated thrill to it, but at the same time, Sam missed absolute comfort of his own Dean. This boy was his brother, but he wasn’t Sam’s home. Not like the real Dean.

When they’d finished their food and stuffed the greasy wrappers back into the take-out bags, Dean turned to him, one knee up on the seat, and said, not quite meeting his eyes. “So, uh. We’ve got some more time to kill.”

“Yeah.” Sam shifted toward him, one arm stretched along the back of the seats, almost touching the other window. He felt huge in this tiny car, and huge beside Dean, all wide eyes and soft lips and still-growing limbs. Dean looked up at him through his lashes, licked those pink lips, and Sam couldn’t quite tell if it was coyness or uncertainty. Some of both, probably.

He knew Dean thought he was hot – or at least, Dean as an adult did – but he was also sixteen and Sam had no idea how much of his teenage bravado about sexual escapades had been exaggerated for his little brother’s benefit. But then Dean leaned in and pressed their mouths together.

Eyes sliding shut, Sam kissed him back with a sigh, feeling the differences in Dean’s technique, honed over more than fifteen years. He already had the lower-lip nibble that always made Sam shudder, though, and Sam was growing hard in his jeans.

Pulling back, Sam looked down at his brother’s face inches from his own. Dean was gold-tinged all over, from his freckles to his sun-kissed hair. Sam had a hysterical thought about Greek demi-gods and cupbearers. He pressed a thumb against Dean’s soft, kiss-swollen mouth, and felt a sharp throb of excitement electrify his body. This version of Dean was a dream, a fantasy. Sam wanted to devour this boy, possess him in every way possible. Dean’s tongue slid over the pad of his thumb and Sam swore.

“I want to fuck you,” he said, voice hoarse, and watched Dean shiver, eyelids fluttering, pupils blown. “You ever done that before?”

For a second he thought Dean wasn’t going to answer, and then he said, “Only... only with my hands.”

That hit Sam squarely in the groin, a hot flash as he imagined his teenage brother contorted in the shower, or in a shared motel bed, fucking himself with his fingers. And god, god, he’s not going to do Dean for the first time with spit alone, but Sam wants it so bad he feels feverish with it, dick painfully hard against his zipper, pulse throbbing in his ears. Show him how good it can feel, show him that someday he’ll never want anything else...

Sam blinked himself out of that thought. This was just another hook-up to Dean, and they didn’t have the time, space, or equipment to do it right. But Sam could still show him something that would blow his mind.

“In the back seat,” he grunted, and Dean scrambled to obey. Sam crawled in after him, pausing to untie his boots. The Volkswagen was an economy car. If he’d had any foresight, he would have hotwired something larger. He and Dean had fucked in the Impala plenty of times, but even her wide bench seats barely accommodated them both.

Sam ended up with one leg still out the door, bent over Dean who was on his back, knees bent up around his ears, making it almost impossible to get his jeans off.

“I’m normally a lot smoother than this,” he said ruefully, after banging his head on the roof of the car and swearing.

“Whatever you say, Sasquatch,” Dean said, and Sam’s stomach flipped. Growling, he leaned down to bite at Dean’s mouth again, and Dean huffed, hips jerking up involuntarily.

With more flailing and swearing, they got Dean naked from the waist down, and Sam turned him over face down on the seat. Spreading his ass with both hands, Sam ducked his head and licked a bold stripe from his tailbone down to the base of his cock.

Dean yelped and jolted so hard that his head thudded against the door. “Holy fucking shit.” Sam grinned to himself and did it again. Dean’s hole flexed and twitched against his tongue, and Sam managed to get his jeans open one-handed just to relieve some of the pressure on his aching dick.

They were parked a ways off the road on an overgrown pullout, shielded by a copse of trees but it was still monumentally stupid to be tongue fucking a teenage boy on a bright evening in 1995 just a stone’s throw from a county road in South Carolina. Sam couldn’t even begin to give a fuck. Dean was bucking back against his face, trying to ride him, and Sam wished he could have Dean straddle his face and do it properly, but just pressed his lips harder to Dean’s hole, twisting his tongue inside a little and listening to Dean wail.

Every fiber of Sam’s body was aching to be inside Dean, it was like a physical pressure in his gut. But Dean was still so tight, squeezing down around his finger and tongue. Dean’s dick was leaking onto the upholstery, his balls drawn up tight against Sam’s chin, and the head of Sam’s cock was leaving smears on his open fly. Their bare skin was sticking together with sweat and summer humidity where Sam’s cheek was pressed to Dean’s ass, and where his hands gripped Dean’s thighs.

Dean was always vocal in bed but the noises he was making were barely human. They were high and keening, and it shouldn’t have made Sam’s cock throb at how young he sounded but it did. He sounded like a boy getting his ass licked for the first time.

Sam curled his finger toward Dean’s prostate, sucking hard around his rim, and Dean choked on a sob and came. His body pulsed beneath Sam’s touch, muscles clenching, come dripping onto the fabric. Sam swore and worked him through it, his own cock throbbing in sympathy.

When Dean collapsed, panting, Sam sat up as much as he could and gripped his own cock, stroking himself fast and hard, looking down at Dean’s lean, golden body sprawled beneath him. There was a hectic flush on his cheeks and down his chest, his hair was standing up in sweaty spikes. Sam felt his balls tighten, his own orgasm coiling deep in his gut. Dean looked up at him and licked his lips, and Sam came with a grunt, hunching over with the force of it, cock spilling pearly stripes all over Dean’s chest and hip, the delicate hairs of his thighs and his slowly soften cock.

“So,” Dean said, after a long moment. He was still short of breath.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, gingerly extending one leg that was starting to cramp.

They cleaned up as best they could and stretched out on the grass. The sun was going down, glowing molten rose-gold through the copse of trees, sending lengthening shadows across the fields. Sam’s body was loose and humming contentedly, and he thought idly about going for another round, but instead they just lay side by side in comfortable silence.

When it was fully dark, they stole the painting. The alarm system in the twenty first century version of the antique shop had yet to be installed, so it was as simple as picking the lock.

Sam wrapped his jacket around the painting and took it out the service door in the back. Dean, waiting as a getaway driver, pulled away from the curb with more elan than necessary, given the absolute lack of drama incurred by the theft.

Out in the hills again, in a different direction, they parked the car, leaving the lights on, and got out with the painting, walking to the center of an empty field. On the horizon to the east the lights of Lexington were an orange smudge, hiding the stars. Sam uncapped the gasoline and poured it over the painting. He was reaching for his lighter when Dean said, “You didn’t just get moved in space, is that right? You got moved in time.”

Sam froze with his hand in his pocket, eyebrows shooting up. “How did you figure it out?”

“Looked in your wallet,” Dean admitted. “You’ve got six fake IDs all issued a decade from now. Credit cards too.”

Sam huffed an exasperated laugh. He’d made the cardinal mistake about Dean Winchester – getting distracted by his pretty face. “You’re right,” he said. “It knocked me out of my time too.”

Dean nodded, not looking at him, gaze fixed in the middle distance of darkness. The headlights made his eyes gleam like pools of water. “You’re Sammy, aren’t you?”

The breath punched out of Sam’s chest and he gaped at his brother. “I...”

“You say my name exactly the same way he does.” Dean’s jaw was tight. “Do we... I mean does he... this...” he gestured awkwardly between them, “this isn’t... he’s my baby brother,” Dean finished, voice rough with emotion, and Sam understood what he was asking.

“Dean,” he said, and he heard it in his voice, the thing that Dean had recognized; the echo of the boy he’d once been, saying his brother’s name. “I’ve wanted you in every way there is since before I had words for it. You didn’t make me like this.”

Dean’s shoulders relaxed fractionally. “And we’re... okay?”

“I’m not going to lie to you, our lives are pretty fucked up in plenty of ways. But this? This is good.”

“Good,” Dean echoed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Good.” He bit his lip.

Sam could tell he had questions – who fucking wouldn’t? “I’ve got to go,” he said gently. “I shouldn’t talk about it.”

“In case you change things?”

“Yeah.”

“So this happened in your timeline too?”

“Yeah. I remember getting left in the hotel room. You came back late that night and told me you’d found a painting and burned it.”

Dean nodded, absorbing that. “Okay. Then let’s light this sucker up.”

It was so familiar that Sam laughed out loud, pulling his lighter out and clicking it on. The painting caught with a whoosh, paint bubbling and cracking, edges curling up almost instantly. Sam felt a tug in his gut, the edges of his vision going dark. Before the time warp claimed him entirely, he felt Dean’s hand on his cheek, pulling his head down; Dean’s soft lips against his in one more fierce, silent kiss.

He kissed his brother back and then in a stomach-churning moment of change, he was lying on a scratchy motel comforter, half on top of Dean and Dean’s research notes spread out on the bed. Dean was swearing and flailing at him, and then grabbing him in a fierce embrace. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy, twelve hours, do you have any idea? I couldn’t find the painting, had no fucking idea if you were gonna make it back in one piece... Goddammit, Sam.”

Sam wrapped his arms around Dean, the familiar shape and smell of him flooding through Sam. Finally, when the adrenaline had ebbed a little and he could trust his voice to be steady, he said, “So were you ever going to tell me that you hooked up with me once when you were sixteen?”

Dean lifted his head from Sam’s shoulder, cheeks pink. “What was I gonna say? Hey, I think older-you showed me what a rim-job was back when I was barely old enough to drive? There was never really a time to bring it up.”

"No, I guess not."

"So. Have fun? With younger, hotter me?"

Sam tightened his arms around Dean and breathed in his brother's scent again, strong between his collar and his ear. It smelled like home. "I'm glad to be back," he said honestly.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love!  
> [There's now a translation into Korean here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28087533), thanks to bluethermos. <3 :)


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